Chapter VII: “here Hangs His Brother’s Scalp.”

The scene is changed.

And such a change!

It is but little more than a fortnight since Tom was busily engaged getting cargo on board the _Caledonia_ at the noisy and far from romantic seaport of Callao. It is little over a week since he bade adieu to Captain Herbert and his friends in the ship, and started from Guayaquil on his daring journey into the wilds of this veritable land of mountain and flood. It is little over a week, and yet it seems an age, and here he is at Riobamba; a town of strange low houses, few of which can boast more than a single apartment, but standing in their own grounds nevertheless. A town which does not look very imposing from a distance, and certainly does not improve on closer acquaintance; built on a sandy plain, in sight of and surrounded by the highest giants of the Andes.

It is night, and Tom, tired of wandering through the streets, is returning to the outskirts, where his little encampment is stationed. He prefers the company of Indians even, to a sojourn for even a single night in the inexpressibly filthy rooms of the city.

It is quieter, too, here; the silence only broken occasionally by the yelping of half-wild curs quarrelling over their carrion, or the cries of the night-birds. The moon is shining very clearly, and the stars look so near that the snow-capped mountains seem far above them. Yonder is the far-famed Chimborazo; Altur is also in sight, with its precipitous and rugged sides, and Carhuairazo, and mighty Tinguragua.

It is seldom indeed that they can be seen so distinctly as they are to-night; but when the moon rises slowly up into the deep-blue sky, flooding all the scene with its dreamy light, the view on every side is grand in the extreme.

And those everlasting hills, the brilliant moon, and the silvery stars, are to Tom’s mind but steps in a ladder that leads his thoughts to heaven itself. He is so impressed with the solemnity of the whole scene, that before he retires to his tent he must needs kneel down and pray. He has much to pray for; he has not thoughtlessly entered upon the undertaking which has hardly yet commenced. He knew all the dangers to which he would be exposed; and although the very idea of being a lonely wanderer through Ecuador wilds appealed to the romance of his character, he would not willingly have risked his young life had not a greater reward than pleasure only seemed to depend upon the success of his expedition, namely, the realization of his dream, and the finding of lost Bernard Herbert. So he prayed now for a blessing on his endeavours; and for an unseen hand to support him in his journeyings, and to shield him from the dangers in forest, in jungle, and plain.

He rose refreshed in spirit, and soon reached his little toldo. His people had built themselves a hut of branches and grass, to shield them from the sun and rain by day and the dews at night. But three of them were waiting to receive him at his toldo door. This toldo, I may here mention, was a kind of gypsy tent of canvas. It had been Captain Herbert’s last gift to him before they parted, and was made by the sailors on board the _Caledonia_.

It had not been difficult for Tom to secure servants for his expedition into the interior. He had fifty volunteers at least, and from these he chose five. Most of whom were real Indians, with a little Spanish blood in them. Active, young, and strong fellows every one of them, though certainly far from good-looking. Neither were they tall. Tom towered above them like a giant, or as the great volcanic crater of Cotapaxi towers above the neighbouring mountains. I believe each and all of his servants were just a little proud of their young white master, and just a little afraid as well. Tom, during the long years he had spent at sea, had not only developed immense strength, but something of a quick and imperious temper as well. Not that he was a bad-natured fellow by any means, only he would have things done his own way; he would be obeyed, and he had a pair of eyes that looked a man through and through while he issued an order or asked a question. In brief, Tom was not to be trifled with.

As he now approached his toldo, three Indians who had been squatting in the shade walked forth a few paces to meet him, bowed, and stood silently leaning on their tall spears, waiting for their white chief to speak. In their dark cotton ponchos and trowserets, if I may coin a word, their heads dressed in tall feathers, and a bold, half-defiant look on the face of each, they certainly looked picturesque enough.

They were Indians of different tribes--a Canelo, a Napo, and a Thaparo; but as Tom had them armed and dressed precisely alike, it would have been difficult for a stranger to have seen much difference in them, by moonlight at all events.

“Well, men,” said Tom, stopping in front of them, “what is the news?”

“De news is,” said Tootu, the Canelo, for he was usually spokesman, his English being the best. “De news is dat de Tapir and de Wild Turkey hab eet plenty and go to sleep like pigs, and dat de Debil hab come, señor.”

Oko and Taoh both bowed, as if to confirm the information, startling though it sounded.

Tootu, Taoh, and Oko, signifying wind, fire, and water, were Tom’s principal men at present. The Tapir and the Wild Turkey were savages of a lower cast, and fit only to look after the horses and dogs, of which there were five of the former and three of the latter. “De Debil” himself was the guide _par excellence_, and for him they had been waiting for two or three days. His name in Indian language was Samaro, and Samaro we must call him in future, though it means much the same.

“Light the lamp in my toldo, Tootu, and we will receive Samaro.”

The lamp was lit, and Tom, somewhat tired of his rambling walk, threw himself on a mat on the ground. On this mat was curled no less a personage than Black Tom, the cat, who responded to Tom’s caress with his usual fond purr--rrn.

An attempt had been made to keep this strange puss on board, but all in vain. He had watched his master’s every movement, and when one of the sailors had attempted to catch him, with the intention of shutting him up, Black Tom had made it very hot indeed for that particular sailor. He had been glad enough to let him go.

And now Samaro entered.

Samaro was a very clever and very remarkable-looking Indian. Almost as tall as Tom himself, though probably double his age, with straight dark hair, and eyes of a piercing black, his face almost white, and singularly handsome. His poncho was of some light-coloured fur, and rather voluminous; while, as he stood with it thrown back over the arm which held his high feather-adorned spear and shield as well, in his girdle could be seen an ugly and business-like knife, and also a huge revolver. On his head was a cap of feathers, and there were toucan’s tails dangling to his girdle at one side, and something very dreadful to behold at the other. This was nothing more nor less than the complete skin of the head and face of an enemy killed in battle, filled out with moss, but shrivelled to the size of a cocoa-nut, the features awfully pinched and contorted, and the whole appearance of the horrible ornament ugly enough to give one the nightmare.

“Señor Samaro?” said Tom.

“De Debil, señor, at your service.”

“We will call you Samaro.”

“Si, señor. Samaro will do.”

“Well, Samaro, I like the looks of you; though I don’t admire that ornament at your belt.”

“I do not admire that ornament at _your_ side, señor.”

“That,” said Tom laughing. “O, that is my pet cat; and he must be your friend as well as mine.”

“That is well. I will love him.”

“Then we won’t quarrel.”

“No, we cannot. I have a reason to respect you. I was guide to a good white man before. It is many, many years ago. Ten years and ten moons, señor.”

“He was kind to you?”

“Ah, yes, he was kind to me. I shall never forget him.”

“His name?”

“Robert--Señor Robert. I think his other name was Sinclair.”

“Samaro!” cried Tom, springing up and clasping

the astonished Indian by the hand. “That was my Uncle Robert. How pleased I am. Sit down. Here Tootu, Taoh, Oko--wind, fire, and water,--where are you? Sit down on my mat, Samaro.”

So loudly had Tom shouted, that Wind, Fire, and Water rushed into the toldo like a first-class hurricane, almost upsetting each other in their eagerness.

“Bring coffee and food, and be smart about it.”

“Samaro,” he continued, “this is delightful! How glad I am to have met you. There, look, even my friend, the cat, is getting fond of you.”

Samaro stroked Black Tom somewhat dubiously. Then he looked up.

“Señor,” he said.

“Yes, Samaro.”

“This is not your private debil, is it?”

“No, no. I assure you it is not. I do not keep a private debil. I shouldn’t know what to do with one.”

“Then, señor,” said Samaro in a low voice, and with one rapid glance towards the toldo entrance, “we will _say_ so. We will tell the boys it is your evil spirit.”

“But why, Samaro?”

“Why, señor, it may save your life many times during your stay in the wilds.”

Black Tom was meanwhile walking back and fore betwixt his master and Samaro, with his tail very erect indeed, singing loudly, and evidently doing his best to cement a friendship thus strangely begun.

“Samaro, do you remember all my dear uncle’s adventures?”

“Yes, and all he said. Is the dear señor alive?”

“I trust so. Well, we will oftentimes talk of him. I think, Samaro, you are a good man.”

Samaro laughed aloud, but not disrespectfully.

“I am clever,” he said; “but not good. He! he! O, no; goodness does not pay. I am a thorough blackguard.”

“Samaro, you astonish me! And I don’t believe you.”

“But I have been told so. I have fought plenty, I have scalped my enemies, I have revelled in bloodshed.”

“But you never have betrayed a friend?”

“No, no, no; sooner would Samaro die.”

“And you speak the truth, do you not?”

“Yes. Because one lie told requires five more to shore it up.”

“Shore it up?” said Tom. “That is a sailor’s expression. Where did you acquire it?”

“From your good uncle. But I have much been to sea.”

“You have been to Callao?”

“I know every one there. I have been all over the world too.”

“Do you know that my uncle’s ship was seized by mutineers, with one Roderigo at their head?”

“I know all the story.”

“Samaro, do you know the reason why I am going all alone to the wilds--I mean without a white companion?”

“Like your uncle, you go to hunt.”

“No, that is not my chief reason. Samaro, listen. The captain of that unhappy ship had a son--a boy--who was stolen from his parents, and carried into the interior--”

“No, no,” interrupted Samaro. “He was carried no farther than here at first. He was sold here at Riobamba as a slave, and by Indians taken away across the terrible mountains. Roderigo is a foul fiend! See here,” he continued, his dark eyes blazing with excitement. “Roderigo had a brother, a fierce Spaniard, likewise a fiend; I killed him. Here hangs his brother’s scalp, and I have sworn that Roderigo’s shall hang beside it.”

“Samaro, Roderigo is dead.”

Samaro laughed, a grim and ghastly laugh.

“I know the story. I too have a brother. It was my brother who slew Roderigo. He has his scalp by this time. The grave could not hide his foe long from my brother’s gaze.”

“Samaro,” said Tom, “you almost make me shudder. Surely this villain Roderigo has done you and your brother some irreparable injury?”

Samaro’s face grew dark as night.

“Had Roderigo a thousand lives,” he said, “he should yield them slowly up one by one before he could atone for the injury he did to me and mine. We will say no more now. Believe only this, he--this fiend Roderigo--slew my mother, burned our huts, and stole my brother’s wife and child.”

“So terrible a subject,” said Tom, “is best allowed to rest. But richly indeed did the wretch deserve his fate.”

Samaro sat in silence sipping his coffee for some time after this. But gradually the troubled look that had crept over his face left it, and soon he was talking again cheerfully enough.

“And so,” said Samaro, “I am henceforth to be your guide.”

“You are to be my chief guide, my steward, my counsellor, and my head man in every way.”

Samaro smiled in a pleased way.

“We will begin to get ready at once--to-morrow morning at sunrise,” he said, “if it so please you, señor.”

“That will do, Samaro. I long to be on the road. But one other question I wish to ask you before you retire. Have you any guess as to where Bernard Herbert is or what is his condition?”

“Absolutely none as to his condition, but he was taken away by the Jivaros.”

“Just what the dying Roderigo told me.”

“There was a lady, too,” continued Samaro, “a delicate young girl, sold at the same time. She came from the far east in your uncle’s ship, and had been nurse to Mr. Herbert’s child.”

“Yes, yes; that was the ayah. Did they ill-treat her?”

“No; they were afraid of her. They looked upon her as a being from another world.”

“Did she go with the boy?”

“She did.”

“Then we may find _both_?”

“I fear neither.”

“What?”

“I give you no hope of finding either. But we _may_.”

“Ah! yes, Samaro, we may. Good-night. I’ll sleep and dream on that hope.”

“Good-night.”